He's My Brother
by juho69
Summary: Martin gets Danny back. Late sequel to 'He Ain't Heavy'.


HE'S MY BROTHER

Martin Fitzgerald walked blindly down the corridor and distractedly pushed open the door of the office. His mind was in turmoil.

The last six months had been among the worst of his life. He had been shot and seriously wounded during an ambush when he and Danny Taylor had been escorting assassin Adisa Teno to custody. Danny had only suffered a minor head injury but he had been hit in the chest and stomach and had needed hours in surgery to stabilise him. During his recovery, he had found it more difficult than he would ever have anticipated to go back to normal, to the extent that he had continued to take pain-killers until he had slowly become dependent on them. The crux had been reached the previous week when he had he had stolen a bottle of pills from the home of Gina Hill, a missing woman who had been found safe. Samantha, visiting him at his apartment, had found them, challenged him and all was out.

"_I don't want your help. I don't need anybody's help, okay?"_

"_Martin, please just tell me how to help you!"_

"_I don't know, Sam. I don't know."_

He had tried, really tried, to be strong after the ambush and his ordeal. He was an FBI agent, and a Fitzgerald, after all; nothing else was to be expected of him. Jack, Vivian and Samantha had welcomed him back with great warmth and affection, and he was especially pleased to see Vivian, who had only just returned to work herself after major heart surgery. However, he had seemed to see very little of Danny. Probably he felt guilty that he had been left practically unscathed whilst Martin's injuries had been so serious. However, that was just part of the job. You had to shut the past away in the back of a drawer and there was no time for reflection. Danny was supposed to be his friend. He should know that. Martin would never have admitted it to anyone – but, he was rather hurt.

He had tried, really tried, to be strong after the ambush and his ordeal.

But…it had been far, far harder than he had expected.

He walked dazedly into the office, over to his desk. The only other person there was Danny. Martin felt somewhat apprehensive.

"Morning," Danny greeted him.

"Morning," answered Martin, shortly. It certainly wasn't a good one. He deposited his rucksack down by his desk, switched on his computer and started flicking through the files.

Danny walked up to him.

"Look…what I said to you last week…about the pain-killers…"

Martin stopped reading the files on his desk.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of. Happens to a lot of people. Like me and the booze."

Martin looked up.

"I didn't realise how badly you were hurting, pal. I spoke to Sam last night, while we were waiting – I told her what I'd said to you last week, and she said to me that she'd called in on you at home, and that she could see you were in a bit of a state - "

Martin had been listening with interest and some hope; at this comment, however, his head snapped up.

"You've been talking about me to Samantha?" he asked quietly.

Danny looked puzzled. "Yeah, while we were waiting for…"

"No-no, hold on a minute," Martin interrupted. "You spoke to Samantha last night, in her car, and she told you that she'd been round to my apartment, seen what's been happening to me, and you decided you needed to help me."

Danny looked uneasy. "Well, yes – except that I didn't decide – she asked me to help you - "

"She asked you to help me?" Martin's tone was icy, bitter and sarcastic. "Well – that explains everything. You're not standing here pleading your support because you _want_ to help me – you're doing it because Sam _asked_ you." Martin shook his head, incredulously.

"No – no, man – I've been there – I do want to help you, really – "

"_Help_ me? If you really wanted to help me, perhaps you could have visited me in hospital after I'd nearly bled to death, perhaps you could have called in to see me when I was back home, perhaps you could have said a little more to me than, "How've you been, I'm sorry that I haven't come to see you in a while," when I came back to work!" Martin felt himself being taken over by a fury which he had never known he possessed and, frighteningly, being carried away into realms of anger which he never realised existed within him. He could see the hurt in Danny's brown eyes but all he wanted to do was twist the knife viciously. All he wanted to do at that moment was to tear into Danny, to hurt him, and by now, he was shouting. "Where were you when I needed a friend? This isn't about me at all; it's about you, Danny Taylor, trying to assuage his guilt – oh, sorry, you probably don't understand what that means, do you, a slum kid like you – I mean, you hardly had a private school education! You've let me down, completely – and I'll never forgive you!"

Danny's face was pale, his lips were trembling and he looked like a frightened animal. It was only later that Martin recalled that he had seen that expression only once before : on the night of the ambush, in the car, when Danny realised Martin had been shot. Martin's blue eyes blazed at him with contempt; then, he stormed out of the office, through the door and into the corridor.

He made towards the coffee machine. He snatched a cup, slammed it down and made to grab the hot water jug. In his anger and drug-induced mood, however, his movements were too hasty and unco-ordinated. His grasp missed the jug but, instead, his hand connected with it awkwardly and it tipped over.

The boiling water spilled all over the fingers of Martin's left hand.

Martin screamed.

Danny reacted immediately. He ran out to Martin, gripped his arm and pushed him through the door into the first-aid post. He snapped on the cold tap. He thrust Martin's hand under the tap so the cold water cascaded over his fingers. Martin gritted his teeth with the pain. It felt as though his fingers were on fire. After a minute or two, he tried pulling them away but they still hurt badly. Danny let the water run and run until, gradually, the pain died down.

Martin looked at his hand. The skin on his middle and ring fingers was red, split and scalded. It would take several days to heal.

Danny opened the first aid box and took out the tube of salve. Putting his hand gently under Martin's fingers, he dabbed the cream on to his burns. Martin winced at first but gradually relaxed. Gingerly, he moved the fingers. They were still painful and sore but the cream had soothed them somewhat. They would heal in time.

_Of course, it could have been far worse, _said a voice in his head_. You could have been so badly burnt that you had to go to hospital. Or, worst of all, one of your colleagues could have been severely scalded – all thanks to your temper._

_But, what else can we expect from a drug addict?_

Martin felt himself go weak at the knees. The shock of being burnt and all the implications were starting to hit him. Breathing hard, he slumped to the floor, against the cupboard. Danny slid down beside him. Martin knew this was it. Danny was right. He was a danger to the others and to himself.

"I need to talk to you," said Danny.

Martin nodded. He knew what Danny would say and he was resigned to it.

"I need to talk to you, too," he replied.

He waited.

"I'm - sorry," Danny said hoarsely.

In surprise, Martin looked up.

"You were right. I have let you down. Real bad."

Martin studied him, in wonder.

"All this time, since the ambush, it's been about me, my guilt, my feelings, me, Danny Taylor, while you - " His voice broke off. "You risked your life for me that night, yet I didn't come and visit you in hospital, I didn't call you when you got home and when I realised you were addicted, I didn't even try and help you but just got mad at you." He shook his head, turned away and covered his face with his hands. He looked up again, his face full of anguish, pain and remorse.

"Martin – I am so sorry."

Something which Martin had always admired about Danny was his directness. Danny would always do or say something straightaway whereas he, Martin, would think about the deed and its consequences ten different ways. Martin realised Danny had said these things not to make him feel better but because he truly meant everything he said.

"I'm sorry, too, brother," Martin answered. "I should never have said all those things to you. I don't know what got into me."

_You do know,_ said the voice in his head. _You're an addict_.

No…

_Yes. YOU'RE AN ADDICT. Whatever will your father say? He'll be so disappointed. Fitzgeralds don't fail. It's a sign of weakness. Fitzgeralds don't fail. It's a sign of weakness. A sign of WEAKNESS…_

"NO!" Martin cried aloud. "No…"

He felt Danny's hands on his shoulder and arm, anchoring him steady. Martin's whole body was shaking and he felt cold. He brushed his hands over his face. Danny rubbed his shoulder gently. "It's okay," he whispered. "Okay."

Eventually, Martin turned to look at Danny. His blue eyes were full of pain.

"I need help."

"I'll help you," Danny answered gently.

Martin tried to shake his head, to resist – but the warmth of Danny's brown eyes drew him in.

"You remember when I fainted in the bathroom? You came and helped me. You sat with me when I threw up, bled everywhere and mopped me up afterwards. Man, that must have been so hard for you. But you did it. You faced your fears then and overcame them. I didn't. I walked away from you when you needed me most."

Martin listened.

"I really admire you, Martin. I used to think you had it easy, what with your dad and everything – but now I think it must've been harder. You're far stronger than me. You can get through this. You were there for me then. And I'm going to be here for you now."

Martin turned to look at Danny. But, he couldn't see him clearly.

"I'll never let you down again, brother. I promise."

He reached up and smoothed Martin's hair gently. Poor Martin was quite overcome. Danny put his arm round Martin and pulled him close. The two friends sat close together, their heads touching, drawing strength from each other.

After a few minutes, Danny said, "You know what?"

"What?"

"All we need now is for that other agent to walk in and see us here."

Martin began to smile. "You mean the one – "

" – from the bathroom - "

" – when you fainted – "

" – and when we had to share a sink."

The boys looked at each other; then, they both burst out laughing.

"That would be our reputations shot!"

"Down in flames!"

"Danny – "

"Mm?"

"What time's the meeting tonight?"

Danny frowned. "What meeting? There isn't a m- " It was only then that he realised which meeting Martin meant.

"I'll find out."

After a few moments, Danny asked, "You ready to get back out there?" He smiled encouragingly.

Martin smiled back, wearily. "Give me a few minutes."

"Can you get up?"

With Danny's support and leaning against the cupboard, Martin managed to stand up. The two friends steadied each other.

"You be all right?" Danny asked, concernedly.

Martin took a deep breath. "Yes." He would.

In more ways than one.

"Come to me if you need anything, bro."

"Danny – "

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

Martin held out his hand. Danny took it and they squeezed hands hard. Blue eyes met brown and they both smiled.

Martin stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom. He was wearing a blue t-shirt, a grey hoodie jacket, blue jeans and trainers. The AA meeting was at half past seven.

He faced himself honestly. He had tried to pretend he could cope with what had happened to him, being ambushed, shot and severely wounded – after all, he was a Fitzgerald and his father was Deputy Director of the FBI – but, in the end, his strength was only a mortal man's and he had found it just too challenging. Instead of admitting what practically no-one would have regarded as a weakness, however, he had chosen to hide it, to cover it up, pretend there was nothing wrong – and, as a result, had become a drug addict.

He winced slightly as the words went through his mind – but, this time, he felt no shame or reticence. It was the truth. His friends had helped him see that. And, he was going to change it.

His friends…

Danny was going to meet him at the centre, that evening, and was going to be right there with him, each time, all the way through.

_You think you know someone, _reflected Martin_, then they do or say something that makes you admire them even more._

Everyone made mistakes – but, not everyone had the courage and modesty to admit they had made them, and then show contrition. Danny had, that morning, and Martin would never forget it. Not because Danny had conceded to him – not at all – but because, in that moment, he had him back as a friend. Something else which had sunk in only after he got home was that Danny had overcome his fear of burns to help him. It was only then that Martin realised how much he valued Danny's friendship and how near he had come to losing it.

Martin took a few deep breaths. He pulled the blue woollen hat which he had been holding over his head; then, he turned and left.

He reached the centre just before seven-thirty. The traffic had been bad and the journey had taken longer than he had anticipated. He took the elevator up to the fifth floor and walked along the corridor to the room the clerk had indicated. He looked at his watch: twenty-five to eight. He hoped Danny wouldn't think he'd stood him up.

He stood in front of the door, hesitating a moment; then, he went in.

The meeting had already started: a man in his forties was seated at the desk at the front, speaking about his experiences. Martin scanned the room; it contained around twenty men and women of a variety of ages; but there was only one for whom he was seeking.

He saw the familiar black hair with the tuft sticking up at the crown in the third row from the front, wearing a brown teddy coloured jacket. A tremendous rush of warmth and reassurance moved through Martin, and he felt stronger.

As if sensing him, at that moment, Danny turned around. Seeing Martin, he nodded, half-smiling as he did so. Martin took a deep breath; then, he walked into the room. He made his way quietly into the row towards Danny. Danny moved the newspaper from the chair next to him so his friend could take his place at his side. He didn't actually speak to Martin; but, he looked at him and tapped the side of his nose gently, in acknowledgement.

It acknowledged his presence – but, for Martin, it also acknowledged something else.

That Danny Taylor was a very good friend – but, he was also his brother.


End file.
